Of Philsophy, Precise Measuring, and a Broken Chocolate House
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: The two stared at it; Gwen said, finally, after a long moment, in a flat voice, "You know I said I wanted a chocolate house sarcastically, right?" TASM movie-verse. Pre-TASM2.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Amazing Spider-man 2.**

**SO, UM, ME AND MY FRIENDS WENT TO SEE THIS MOVIE. ON OPENING DAY, WHICH NEVER HAPPENS. AND WE EXPECTED THE ENDING, REALLY, BECAUSE OF COURSE IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN, BUT IT WAS LITERALLY SO SAD. I AM 98% DONE WITH THIS MOVIE. SO I'M WRITING THIS TO ACTUALLY INCLUDE SOME HAPPINESS BECAUSE THERE IS NOT MUCH HAPPINESS REMAINING. YOU GET ME?**

Rain fell over New York in dark sheets one Saturday afternoon. Fall, the last before the graduation of Peter and Gwen, rang with dark, crispy leaves being blown past the high windows of the Stacys' apartment building. The weather, in summation, was truly miserable, and millions of people felt miserable as they traversed and stomped all about the electric city. But inside that lovely high apartment building were the Stacies and Peter Parker, and it was cozy indeed in there.

Mrs. Stacy stirred some delicious gourmet concoction in a saucepan, her back to the kitchen table, where much of the activity in the home was happening. Howard, the eldest Stacy son, was the one lacking, instead playing video games on the big screen TV in the living room. But it was fortunate, considering how all four chairs around the table were occupied. Simon and Phillip were having a time on difficult math homework on one end of the table that was beset with pencils, erasers, calculators, and scrap paper. Then on the other side of table, beyond a very distinct line, was a more precise application of learned methods: A stack of plans sketched and drawn out sat on one end with Peter in his chair and a determined look on his face; he stood up and leaned over with a protractor, using the ruler end to draw a clean, straight line down his graph paper. Gwen stood up from her chair as well; her blonde hair was tied back, but ringlets fell from behind her ears into her face. She barely saw them; her calculating eyes were instead watching Peter's steady hands as he flipped the protractor and drew a quick, slim line against the paper.

"The rectangle is 8 by 6, then?" Gwen said.

Peter nodded, whisking the pencil and protractor onto the table. "It's going to be really tall. One blow from a wolf and it'll just come tumblin' down." He made a downward wave with his hand and met her eyes.

"This is a little unreasonable. You know, the fact that we're doing this?" Gwen said, a little laugh in her voice and a little tugged, upturned quirk to her mouth.

"Are you saying because we're graduating high school next year we shouldn't try fulfilling our strange childhood dreams?" Peter said innocently.

"Okay, first off, I came up with this idea when I was thirteen, far from being a child with little fairy dreams," Gwen said quickly, trying to gain honor back for her childhood.

Peter grinned. "So you're saying this is a big, grown-up, non-fairy dream?" he said, with his stupid big old brown doe eyes gleaming at her.

Gwen shook her head and turned to her mother, saying, "Is the chocolate ready?" For Mrs. Stacy had a laid out gourmet recipe written by her daughter, which detailed at what temperature this specific brand of chocolate should be heated to; Gwen had spent a good portion of her evening last night preparing for this, making out plans for how their little chocolate house would stand and how big it would be, laying out dimensions and canceling out variables.

"It is." Mrs. Stacy handed her the pot of swirled chocolate. "Since it's such a cold afternoon, I'm going to make a batch of hot chocolate. I don't think we'll be able to eat any of this, if it's being used in construction."

"Ha ha, very funny, Mom," Gwen said teasingly. She brought the chocolate to the table, her hands invisible in oven mitts, and she held one against Peter's chest, saying seriously, "Okay, stand back, spider-boy."

Peter couldn't help but want to say banteringly back "That's Spider-Man," but not in the presence of the other Stacys and not when Gwen's eyebrows were furrowed as she carefully poured the melted chocolate onto their plans, which were covered in a thin film of wax paper. He stood back, giving her room to work and not cross the pencil lines, and couldn't help but think _I battle villains and capture robbers and sink drug operations and rescue smoked children out of burning buildings and she's worried about me getting burned by some melted chocolate?_ Needless to say, he couldn't quite get her logic behind her reasoning; he didn't know it was because Gwen _couldn't_ protect him when he was web-slinging across skyscrapers and criminal-filled, poverty-laced neighborhoods; this was the least she could do. Protect him however she could, however stupid it sounded when she told him to stand back from her pouring of structural walls.

Gwen bit her lip, but she nodded, satisfied with her result, as she held the saucepan up, letting the remnants of the dripping chocolate catch against the pan, and stood back, saying, "Okay, get me the frosting knife." Peter looked at the array of tools she had spread on a kitchen table and tossed it to her. She caught it and applied it quickly to the cooling chocolate, spreading it from center to edges and from edges to center on each of the plates of chocolate she had poured. Four walls smoothed and support pieces and roof puzzle pieces ready for hardening, she stood back and held up the knife, sucking the chocolate off, and said, taking it out of her mouth, "We did good, Peter."

"High school valedictorian and improper grammar," Peter said teasingly.

"Okay, that's a given, not a guarantee, that I'm giving the speech at graduation. And I can get away with not being a scientist at Oscorp for a little while."

"Oh, you let loose by using bad grammar?" Peter held up his hands.

"Ugh, Peter—"

"Whoop, sorry. Everyone back up, we've got a regular rebel here—"

"That's not funny, you're not being funny—"

"I'm a little funny, come on—"

"You're not as funny as you think—"

"Just a little bit—?"

"Fine, just a little—"

"Ha! She admits it—"

"You're making me admit it, it's the only way you'll shut up—"

"You're still admitting it, though—"

"Shut up—" She laughed a little. His unreasonable, childish banter _was_ stupidly _endearing_.

"—should I put this down as an amazing event in history—?"

"Eat some chocolate and shut up." She put the knife in his mouth and watched, her head cocked, as he registered this and plucked it out.

"That's A quality chocolate," he said slowly, surprised.

Gwen nodded. "I bought it off a confectionary on 8th Street."

"Is that cinnamon?"

"Cardamom."

"Huh. That—that's nice."

"I know. We're a gourmet family. Even our chocolate can't be normal."

"What's the point, though? I thought we weren't going to eat our house. We're going to keep it out and let gingerbread men and ants inhabit it."

"We're kinda lacking gingerbread men and ants."

"It's New York, Gwen. Saying there aren't any pests is like saying there isn't any crime."

"We live in an apartment where we are strictly bug-free."

"Okay, okay," Peter nodded. "How does that change our chocolate house plan?"

"It's going to stand completely uninhabited. See, I want to live in a chocolate house, but, seeing as I'm five six, I can't fit in it."

"So since you can't live in the house, nobody lives in the house?" Peter said.

"Basically."

"That's an ultimatum."

"Peter, _who_ is going to live in our seven-inch tall chocolate house?"

"Fairies," he said after a long moment of brain-wracking.

"Oh." Gwen nodded. "Fine. The fairies can take up residence in it."

"Okay, so since the fairies are taking up residence in it, why did you bother with buying fancy-flavored chocolate?" Peter wondered.

Gwen swatted his shoulder and ended up chasing him onto the couch, on which they stayed a couple of hours waiting for the chocolate to cool and harden. Howard popped in an action-packed car movie and Gwen's head leaned against Peter's shoulder and their fingers clasped together against her folded legs.

Eventually Phillip and Simon mercifully finished their homework and joined them. Cocoa was sipped from assorted collected mugs made by Mrs. Stacy, who somehow also managed to make soup, salad, and sandwiches while half the kitchen table was covered in delicate chocolate plates. Dinner was eaten on the couch and then Mrs. Stacy cleaned up the kitchen to allow plenty of room for work while the four Stacy siblings and Peter played a board game involving a mystery, little figurines, and a tiny, intricately detailed guillotine. Then Mrs. Stacy, wiping her hands on a dish towel, came out and said, "Gwen, Peter, the kitchen's all yours."

"Okay. Thanks, Mom," Gwen said, standing up.

"Thanks Mrs. Stacy," Peter said, going after her.

"Can we watch?" Simon wondered.

Gwen stopped and clicked her tongue and cocked her head, saying, "This is kinda delicate work."

"Yeah. One shake of the table and the whole thing goes tumblin' down," Peter said, once against making a gesture with his hand indicating a house falling.

"Don't start again," Gwen said. Then she turned back to Simon, who said, "At least let us see it when it's done."

"Of course. We're not going to hide it or something," Gwen said.

Simon gave her a thumbs-up and Gwen caught Peter's hand and turned him right to the kitchen tale, which they proceeded to lean over for a few minutes, their hands pressed against the edge of the table, the thoughts of construction and perfect alignment filling their heads. Gwen had known that Peter was smart during high school, saw how interested and correct he was doing his little tour at Oscorp, but she had been delighted, her passion stimulated, when she heard and interrogated him about his flexible spandex suit and web-shooters. He was more cunning and knowledgeable than she could've ever given him credit before; their two brilliant minds could easily assemble a little chocolate house, of course, right?

That would be the rational, logical thought process concerning these two, but at ten that night Mrs. Stacy was sitting with a book and her reading glasses under a lamp in the living room, Howard and Phillip and Simon were in their bedrooms reading, watching TV, and listening to the police scanner, and the two high school seniors, both graduating at the top of their class, were slumped in their chairs, completely defeated. Peter had both hands knitted in his hair, his elbows against the chocolate streaked table, and Gwen's face was planted in her folded arms. The table itself looked like a war-zone, with a saucepan full of chocolate glue cooling to a ganache consistency. The house looked like it was seventy-years-old, haunted and broken down, torn for parts. Two walls, full of cracks and missing tiny chips in their interiors, stood up on the foil-lined plate bravely, with chocolate oozing and streaking down them; the roof had fallen through and was sitting atop the broken pieces of the other walls; support pieces were broken and cracked and scattered ruins.

Gwen's lip corners had chocolate on them and she had a dot on her nose and when she looked up her mouth was set into a thin, angry line. Peter had a bandage from hot, burning chocolate, and when he saw her making signs of living, his hands fell from his hair, and he bit his lip and attempt to make one chunk of the third broken wall stand up. "Hand me the glue, Gwen," he said.

"Peter. It's hardened," Gwen said in a voice that sounded like she wanted to insist on being miserable.

He reached past her and his sleeve caught against the roof and she said, startled into standing, "Don't move, Peter, wait, stop!" but of course he panicked and his sleeve was brought back and the roof collapsed. He winced and Gwen breathed deeply and propped her head up against her fist. "Brilliant. We have destroyed hours' worth of work. Even kids can make gingerbread houses. How hard is this?"

"Obviously too hard for our stupid minds," Peter said, taking his seat and painting hardened glue on a chunk of wall.

"You know, the theory for this was theoretical at most. The reality proves that just because a theory sounds like it'll work doesn't mean it will," Gwen said, sounding resigned, at best.

"Giving up already, Stacy? You of all people know that one failed experiment doesn't mean the theory sucks," Peter said, looking up from his sad little attempt at repairing the damage Tornado Peter/Gwen had wreaked on the little, unassuming house.

"Yes, but I have no more time or energy to be wasted on this. It was a theory tried out, and it doesn't work," Gwen said. She frowned a little as her boyfriend continued with his clinging to their experiment. "Why do you keep trying?"

"Because I've learned something," Peter said, still keeping his eyes on his work before him, though it was like he was talking directly to Gwen. "When you keep getting pushed down by failure, it is hard to get up. I've accepted that. Makes sense, doesn't it? Every time you try to stand up, failure pounds a fist against your back and your next attempt to stand up is harder because you're weaker, you're hurt, and your will is being broken. I'm keeping myself on my feet or I'll never get up. I gotta keep pushing through, keep trying to win."

"Peter . . ." Gwen said, unsure of what to say.

"I've learned that getting up and pushing through is hard, but I need to keep doing it. My aunt May showed me that. When my uncle Ben died, she kept going. You . . . you showed me that." He looked up. "You keep going, even after your dad's death, because you won't allow yourself to be labeled by your grief. You didn't let yourself become grief's, life's, servant. You're the master of it. You keep pushing through, proving you're stronger than your grief, or failure, is. You won't let yourself fall."

"Peter," Gwen said.

"Yeah, I know. I'm rambling and not making any sense."

"No, see, I kinda get how that makes sense," Gwen said. Her fingers lace around his wrist and hold his hand. "We're not immortal, we get hurt, and yet we keep pushing on."

"Yeah," Peter said, his head cocking a little as he nodded. "I'm trying to not let failure or grief or anything rule me. I can beat it."

"Can I put that in my speech?" she asked.

"Of course. I didn't make it up; don't ask for my permission. I got it all from you," Peter said.

Gwen cocked her head. "I never said that."

"Yeah, you didn't. I got it all from you, though," Peter said.

Gwen smiled a little; she watched with keen, adoring eyes as he finished applying the glue and licked the knife; she said, "You aren't one of those kids who ate paste, are you?"

"But this paste has _cardamom_."

Gwen gave him a long, 'really'? look, and Peter grinned slyly and he leaned forward, his shoulders hunched, his eyes concentrating, on fixing the chunk of wall to one standing wall; Gwen leaned forward, holding her breath as to not be a big bad wolf, and Peter's careful hand fell back, leaving the chunk attached to the wall; she grinned and he leaned back and so did she, and between the two of them making miniscule movements in milliseconds, their entire evening's work fell into a collapsed, delicious mess.

The two stared at it; Gwen said, finally, after a long moment, in a flat voice, "You know I said I wanted a chocolate house sarcastically, right?"

"You also didn't refute it," Peter said just as dryly.

Gwen sighed and bit into a corner of a support piece. "Come on. If we eat the evidence, no one can prove that our failure exists."

Peter ate a square of chocolate and said, "Was that part of a chocolate house?"

"What chocolate house? Who would try to make a house out of chocolate? Be reasonable, Peter," Gwen said, eating a roof side. Then she laughed because of the entire ridiculousness of their situation, and because she felt happy for the first time in a long time, eating cardamom-flavored chocolate and looking across at the boy who made her heart pound and butterflies flap about in her stomach.

"Well, at least it's a tasty failure," Peter pointed out.

Gwen sighed contentedly. "Yeah. We've got that going for us, huh?"

**Thanks for reading! I HOPE EVERYONE WHO WATCHED TASM2 SURVIVED. God bless!**


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